— What are you looking for? Who's your perfect guy?
— Well, first of all, he's too humble to know he's perfect.
— That's me.
— He's intelligent, supportive, funny...
— Intelligent, supportive, funny. Me, me, me.
— He's romantic and courageous.
— Me also.
— He's got a good body but he doesn't have to look in the mirror every two minutes.
— I have a great body, and sometimes I go months without looking.
— He's kind, sensitive and gentle. He's not afraid to cry in front of me.
— This is a man we're talking about, right?
— He likes animals, children, and he'll change poopy diapers.
— Does he have to use the word «poopy»?
— Oh, and he plays an instrument, and he loves his mother.
— I am really close on this one. Really, really close.
I had a theoretical reverence and homage for beauty, elegance, gallantry, fascination; but had I met those qualities incarnate in masculine shape, I should have known instinctively that they neither had nor could have sympathy with anything in me, and should have shunned them as one would fire, lightning, or anything else that is bright but antipathetic.